rise up
by jabbrjays
Summary: "Zoë Nightshade is ascendant. Sanctified, albeit in the pagan sense. She is legendary, in that she is the stuff of legends—Perseus Jackson and Annabeth Chase and Grover will speak of her, and every Hunter from now until the end of the world will know her name. And the platitude that people spout is a half-truth—she is in a better place."


_There is not nearly enough Zoe fic on this site. So I wrote some. Warning: this includes me taking indecent liberties with astrology and more or less completely ignoring HOO. (Haven't read it, never will.) So some information might not align with what's presented in the books, but should - more or less (probably less) - match up to what's on the Wiki._

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Zoë Nightshade is ascendant. Sanctified, albeit in the pagan sense. She is legendary, in that she is the stuff of legends—Perseus Jackson and Annabeth Chase and Grover will speak of her, and every Hunter from now until the end of the world will know her name. And the platitude that people spout is a half-truth—she is in a better place.

Only a _half_ –truth, though, because "better" is not the only word that can be used to describe her new world.

The heavens are endless, and she is more or less free to wander among them. The first thing she does is go to Kallisto, to apologize yet again and to hold her long-lost sister in her arms—albeit in a different form. She cries, her tears soaking into thick brown fur. Kallisto noses at Zoë's crown, snuffling gently. Zoë takes it as her way of saying _don't be such a wet blanket_ , and she tries. She tries. But the tears don't stop coming, and she sobs away hours of her forever. She's lost so much, over the millennia—sisters come and gone, homelands established and abandoned. And to have even a fragment of the golden years of what she supposes could be called her _youth_ back—it's overwhelming. Her heart is full in a way she thought it never would be again, but she is still so empty. For a long moment there are no stars, no skies, just two friends reunited at long last.

And then Arcas nips at Zoë's ankle, a much less subtle way of conveying Kallisto's earlier message. He runs ahead, off into the endless expanse. Kallisto headbutts Zoë into chasing after him.

So she runs. After a while tears stream down her cheeks, leaving silvery specks in the void around her. The air around her is cool, and it flows through her like water through a winding river. Clear water, the water of the past, the water of her tears.

A few tears find their way into her mouth.

She tastes like freedom. She tastes like hope.

Time passes, as it does. The world turns beneath her. And at night, sometimes, she can see the Hunt. During the battle for Manhattan she has to watch their numbers shrink and shrink. Some nights, most nights, Thalia will sit on a rooftop and talk to her. Thalia says many things, some of them true—that Zoë would know what to do, that she regrets their lack of a friendship, that she is lost and only just found by the grace of her sisters and her Lady, that, after the loss of so many, the influx of new faces makes her feel like she is drowning, and that it isn't, from her experience, a good thing when a daughter of the lord of the skies feels that she is submerged.

If Zoë could speak, she would lean in to Thalia's ear to whisper the only truth that she knows—that the days and nights will come and go, but she will remain, and her bones will reform to those made of celestial silver. If she had flesh, she would rest a hand on Thalia's shoulder and give the best reassurance that she could—the silent confirmation that another soul exists.

But Zoë has no ties to the world anymore, and not even the bond of sisterhood can help her.

She remembers, in the dusky-orange years of her childhood, that she would point out the Pleiades to her sisters. They shone a bright blue, just visible on the edges of the sky, together in the heavens as the Hesperides were together on the earth.

But then Zoë was silver, gleaming and sure, and she was long away from one group of sisters, but freshly united with another.

Now she is the same electric blue as the Pleiades, and alone once again.

So she seeks them out. They are friendly enough. And in a way, they are her sisters too—Pleione bore them as she did Zoë. But what bonds they have are forged tight as steel over thousands of years together. Zoë, who has trained for hunting and battle, is lost among their whispers and lilting laughs.

Alcyone, the oldest and brightest, presses a kiss to Zoë's forehead. Her lips burn with such intensity that her touch feels cold, and even though she is insubstantial Zoë feels as if her flesh has been stripped away, leaving her in her bare bones. And when Alcyone speaks, it is in the Greek Zoë has not heard for years.

"I do not think," she says, her accent harsh and aristocratic, each syllable precise, "that you would do well to stay here." She cups Zoë's face in her hand and, with her thumb, wipes absently at the space beneath Zoë's eye. "Not just yet. Visit, of course, but we are not what you seek."

"What do I seek?" The words come slowly. Zoë knows that she sounds every bit the country girl that she grew up as, every bit the woodland girl that she spent over two thousand years as.

Alcyone arches an eyebrow, her eyes sparking. She moves her hand and presses a finger against the spot that she kissed. Her answer is unspoken, but Zoë knows a dismissal when she is given one. So she curtsies and slips, nods at the Pleiades, and takes her leave.

Every night, the rays of the sun chase her into dreamless sleep. She comes to long for that sleep, to turn and run into the light. She's being selfish, horribly selfish, she knows, but this existence is vast and infinite and she is so alone.

Is this what she's searching for? Death? The comforting _lack of_ , the quiet nothingness that enveloped her for a few moments before she woke up and saw the world stretching out beneath her?

Kallisto finds her one night, wandering between the glittering gleaming trails that their astral bodies leave scattered across the heavens. Zoë is walking, desolate, picking one foot up and putting it down again. Kallisto snarls, low and angry. Zoë spins, her hand going to her bow as a reflex, but her fingers still when she sees her face reflected in her friend's eyes.

This is a mistake. Kallisto snaps at her, ripping through flesh, tearing out a chunk of Zoë's lower back. Pain lances through Zoë for the first time since her death. She stumbles forward, almost falling, but catches herself. A glance thrown over her shoulder shows her Kallisto's eyes narrowed, her teeth bared.

Zoë runs. Her side burns, but the cool air takes the edge off. Her heart is thudding, her pulse pounding in her ears. She knows that she can end this—put an arrow between Kallisto's eyes, and she'll be safe until the next night.

But she has been cast out from one group of sisters, has lost another, and been denied entry to a third. Kallisto, in any form, is family. Zoë can't bring herself to take up arms against her sister, especially after what happened to her.

So on and on she goes, until her legs feel as though they are made of lead and her head spins from not breathing right. How long as it been since she ran for her life?

However much time has passed since she last did so, it was too much—she trips over a small arc of stardust. She gasps and flails like a caught fish. The wound in her side screams when she tries to push herself to her feet, and red-hot pain arcs up her spine.

And then Kallisto is standing over her, one of her paws planted on Zoë's shoulder. She's heavy, she has a heft and a weight to her that only frightens Zoë more.

Zoë's world narrows to the paw on her shoulder and the ripping pain of the bite wound in her back, and all she can think of is the rusty stink of her blood, made sickly-sweet with poison, and the way the stars were so bright and so far away. She gasps, and exhales on a sob. Tears start to her eyes and her world blurs, and, gods help her, but she doesn't want to die.

Kallisto rubs her face against Zoë's cheekbone and snuffles, which Zoë supposes is her way of saying, once again, _stop being such a wet blanket_. Carefully, almost daintily, Kallisto removes her paw and stretches out at Zoë's side.

Zoë pulls herself up to a sitting position and maneuvers so she can rest Kallisto's head in her lap, rub at the spot between her ears. They had sat like this, before, braiding each others' hair back and teasing about who was the better shot, who was the faster runner. They can't do that now, but they still have each other.

They stay like that until the sun rises, and the next night Zoë is whole again. She presses her hand against the place where the wound was, anyway. No scar, which is a pity—her scars were constellations on her skin, a map of the stories of her life. It's a pity that her afterlife cannot be mapped the same way. But here is Kallisto, again, this time contrite. She dips her head against Zoë's hand and Zoë thinks— _this is a beginning_.

Is this what she was seeking? The companionship of a lost sister?

Tonight is not like the other nights—she draws her bow, holds it lightly. The heavens don't stretch out before her—they _are_ , and she _is_ , and there are monsters in these stars. And _those_ are what draw her eye as she hesitates, acclimating herself.

And off she goes, Kallisto loping along at her side. She takes potshots at nebulae and ducks for cover inside clouds of swirling gas, tracking down the monsters that have been placed in the skies.

It's a good life, and a better approximation thereof. And she can feel herself slowly, oh-so-slowly, building up the person that she is to become. She has gone from a nymph with feet caked in orange dust to a Hunter with impeccable aim. And now she is something else—a constellation that is more than the void between her stars.

But no matter how long she spends chasing down beasts, no matter how comforting Kallisto's presence at her side is, she's still not prepared when a dog snuffles at her hand and she hears an all-too-familiar set of footsteps.

In the moment that she has, she considers sprinting off. She's quick, and Kallisto is too—they can outpace this.

They _can_ , but they _won't_. She might not be a Hunter of Artemis in the strictest sense of the word, but she is still Zoë Nightshade, and she doesn't want to run away from this fight.

Orion's hand, calloused and warm, grabs her shoulder. She turns around before he can try to turn her around himself, and lifts her chin to stare him in the eyes. He's still taller than her—darker, too. Pale starlight gleams off the dark brown of his skin, is reflected in the depths of his eyes.

"How is she?" are the first words he says to her. His voice is hoarse from disuse, but Zoë can see concern, sickening in its sincerity, written on every line of his face.

With a movement as violent as she can make it, she shrugs off his hand. How _dare_ he.

"Listen—" he starts, but cuts himself off. "I was—it wasn't—"

Zoë can feel her hands balling up—one into a fist, the other around a bow. Every muscle in her body is tensed, and she feels ready to fling herself on Orion and start beating out a rhythm as she breaks his body. She's never been much for poetry, but she supposes that Lord Apollo would forgive her were she to try her hand at composing.

His dog snarls, as if it can read her thoughts. But to be fair, it doesn't need to—Zoë knows that ever intention she has is written clear on her face and body for all to see. Kallisto growls back anyway, and Zoë feels love, wild and hot, bubble up in her chest.

Orion takes a step back, two, holding his hands up in front of him. He gestures with his head, and his dog turns tail and heads off. "No need to have this turn nasty," he says, and grins. "Look, we're on a level field. Bet you never expected this, huh?"

A thousand retorts spring to the tip of Zoë's tongue, first and foremost being _I was not the one who boasted about_ _not_ _ending up here_ , but she doesn't give Orion the dignity of an answer. Instead she nocks an arrow and aims at him. She'll put one through his eye first, if only to _shut him up_. The bloody vengeance fantasies that she had dreamt up over and over again aren't so appealing now that they're face to face—she just wants to be rid of him.

Orion sighs and lowers his hands. Drops to his knees. He looks her in the eyes and Zoë knows that if she were younger, if anything other than iron flowed through her veins, she would stand down. At her side, Kallisto whines and settles herself into a seated position, and Zoë can feel her sister's fingers slipping from her bowstring. Even though those fingers are claws, they're still soft.

Zoë doesn't tremble.

"Do it," Orion says. "If that's what you—"

Her arrow hits home, and his words are cut off as he falls backward.

Zoë stands on shaking legs and walks over to him, gazes down at his dead body. Her aim, as always, was perfect—there's little mess. Orion's legs curled up on themselves because of the way he fell, but his arms are splayed out. His face is neither peaceful nor angry—if Zoë gazes hard enough into his remaining eye she can make out a bit of shock.

She should feel vindicated. She should feel triumphant.

She just feels hollow.

So she sits down next to his corpse and waits for sunrise.

The next night, the arrow is gone from his eye, and he blinks up at her. "Listen," he starts.

She doesn't. She doesn't want his apologies, his excuses. She pushes herself to her feet and waits for a moment, to see if she'll stop feeling like she did once after a week of no food and little water. When the aching emptiness doesn't go away, she extends a hand to Orion.

His fingers close around hers as he pulls himself up. The warmth he exudes is an affront, a wordless accusation. It's a reminder of how her skin used to feel, when she was young—warmed like clay beneath the rays of the sun. She lets his hand go and nods at him.

"So," he says. "I was… I was tracking Scorpius. Would you two like to…"

Zoë turns away from him, scans the horizon. She can see, in the distance, the shifting of a chitinous form. She sets her sights on it and starts running.

She doesn't speak to Orion. He and his dog walk beside her, beside Kallisto, but Zoë is not naïve enough to think of him, once again, as an ally. However, it's a pleasant delusion, one maintained by the silence. They wander the starry skies.

Zoë is certain of many things, and one of them is the knowledge that a man is not what she is seeking. But this—Kallisto on her right, Orion gripping his spear, the weight of her quiver against her back—this is certainty, the closest thing to holiness that she has felt. It is not the companionship of her sisters and her Lady, but it is _something_.

And the world is beneath her, hazy with light pollution and ripped apart by greed. She looks down, and her heart freezes in her chest. Because off in the distance there's a silver-white glow, and it's coming closer and closer.

The moon chariot.

Beside her Orion has frozen and Kallisto is trembling. Neither of them will say a thing, neither of them will make the first move.

Zoë, on the other hand, is moving too quickly to speak. She rips off a strip of cloth from her shirt, wrapping it around her head so it covers her eyes. Thus blinded and somewhat safe, she readies an arrow. She only saw the chariot for a brief moment, and if she messes this up—well, shooting stars come from _somewhere_ , don't they?

Breathe in. Breathe out. Even though she is not alive, her heart beats still, which makes this easier. In-between beats, she releases the bowstring.

The sky cracks beneath her feet, and she's free-falling, wind whipping at her face. Judging from the almost inaudible screaming curses, so is Orion. Fingers grip at her ankle; she reaches out with one hand and closes in on a handful of fur.

For a horrible, horrible second they fall like this, and Zoë knows that this is the end.

Then fingers, white-hot and burning cold, wrap around her wrist, and she is home. It feels like she's being ripped apart as she dangles thousands of miles above the earth, but she's _home_. And then they're all hauled up into the chariot. Underneath the blindfold she keeps her eyes closed and maneuvers herself into a kneeling position.

"My lady," Zoë says, head bowed. She's still catching her breath.

"Zoë," Artemis says, and Zoë can hear the smile in her voice. "Kallisto, Orion…" When she speaks again, it's in the Greek that Zoë grew up with. Her voice even sounds as it did back then—more melodic, a little deeper—which means that she's most likely shifted into a form that appears older. "I am immeasurably pleased to see you all again."

A smile steals across Zoë's face, and tears well up in her eyes. She stands on shaky legs and does her best not to sob out loud. This is what she missed the most about being alive—the driving purpose, the bond between what she did, why she did it, who she did it with, and who she did it for. And it's been given to her, if only for tonight.

Orion reaches over and tugs away her blindfold, and she resists the urge to backhand him out of the chariot. But she hasn't been blinded or burned to cinders, so she stays her hand.

And it's something, to see them all like this, to actually see Orion and Kallisto lit by something that isn't the dim gleam of far-off stars, to be reunited with her Lady—and she's laughing while she cries, burying her face in her hands. She is blessed in a way that has taken its time to become apparent, but she's here now. They all are.

"The crack you made…" Artemis throws a glance back at it. "It will hold, I think. Be careful with it."

Zoë's heart turns over itself in her chest. _It will hold_. What she has here is not one shining moment to treasure for eternity—it's the first of many. So she blinks her eyes dry and swallows the lump in her throat, and looks around the chariot.

Her Lady has tied the reins to the chariot around the axle and is crouching to speak to Orion's dog, while Orion himself looks like he's choking on his own stupid, reckless heart. Beside him Kallisto is curled up against the side of the chariot, and as Zoë watches she bumps her head against his shin, making him jump.

Zoë turns and looks forward, past the golden hinds pulling the chariot. The horizon is getting closer, now. Although Zoë isn't running toward it, she doesn't fear it either. The sun will come up, and she will rest.

Zoë Nightshade is at peace.

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 _Most of the Zoe fic on here is Zoe/some guy, or Zoe as a background figure in Percy/Artemis, and both of these things make me want to vomit and/or punch people. (Mostly punch people, tbh.)_

 _It was fun to develop Zoe not only beyond her character in Titan's Curse, but to have her grow past her death. Like, dying is kind of a big deal, and the idea of an infinite afterlife where you're more or less alone is... kind of daunting! I had a lot of fun writing this and working with her, watching what she did. Which sounds like I wasn't an active participant in the writing process. And, to be honest, there were some developments that I didn't see coming! But they felt true to Zoe's character (both what we got in canon and what unfolded here), so I kept them in._

 _The title is partially Homestuck garbage and partially NGE garbage, and I have no regrets._

 _Did you like this? Hate it? Think it could be done better? Let me know in a review!_


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